Medium Rare
by deadcell
Summary: Some meats are meant to be cut against the grain. Grell/Sebastian one-sided UST, with an appearance by Bard. Written for kink bingo; prompt was "food".


**Medium Rare**

Grell is not the domestic type; she was made for the stage and not the kitchen, but she can't suppress a feel of genuine_wonder_ as she observes Sebastian's expertise. Sebastian is good at _everything_, really; but a small wonder _that_ is, considering what Sebastian _is_. Still, Grell watches Sebastian's hands as he fastidiously measures each and every pinch and cup, the effortless grace with which he stirs a batter for some sort of dessert, the way fruits and vegetables carve into flowers and animals with the elegantly flawless ministrations of little more than a paring knife.

"Mr. Grell," Sebastian addresses, and Grell starts, broken out of her reverie as she admires the bountiful spread on the Phantomhive mansion's kitchen prep table. She looks up at Sebastian hungrily, breaking character for merely a second before once again adopting her bumbling, mewling persona.

It's not fitting at all, for a being such as herself.

But in a way, it's rather exciting.

"Ah, yes, Sebastian?"

Sebastian is staring at her with that utterly intoxicating half-smile, that still and doll-eyed stare which—even to a reaper's perception—seems to penetrate the deepest thoughts in one's brain.

"It is almost time for dinner—" Sebastian fishes his pocket watch from his waistcoat, gazing at the face and then snapping it shut with a fierce _clack_ that causes Grell to jump, "—and I am afraid we are behind the preparation schedule, due to your lack of skill."

Sometimes Grell thinks that Sebastian might be a _tad_ irritated by her presence; perhaps he can tell what she is. If so, he's yet to reveal it, though the way he _looks_ at her sometimes—

"Please pay attention," Sebastian says, and Grell nods eagerly. "I am sure you are aware of the particulars of your Madam's palate?"

"Well…" Grell begins, watching attentively as Sebastian stirs the beginnings of a béchamel sauce, inhumanely uniform pieces of onion he'd chopped earlier beginning to sizzle in a pan of butter. The smell hits her nostrils, savory and rich and _warm_, and Sebastian sprinkles in a bit of flour, brows furrowed.

"_Well?_" Sebastian repeats, and beckons with his free hand, eyes still on the pan. "And please do pass me the milk."

Grell fumbles for a second, hands aloft and eyes scanning the prep table for the glass carafe before she finds it and hands it to Sebastian. The truth of the matter is that Grell doesn't _really_ know much about her Madam's tastes in _anything_, nor does she care to. The important facts are there, having been written in blood and wrath and longing, and that's all Grell needs to know, really.

"She does enjoy a bit of the… richer flavors," Grell hesitantly responds. "And… red wine…"

Sebastian laughs, softly and knowingly, as the milk hits the pan with a hiss.

* * *

The roast emerges from the oven glistening with juices and smelling like something close to heaven. Bard places the pan in front of Sebastian, who waits, one hand on his hip and one on his chin, leaning closer to inspect and smell the meat.

Bard shifts his weight from one foot to the other, anxiously twirling between his fingers a cigarette he no doubt plans to light the second Sebastian gives his approval of the dish. "Everything alright, then? Made sure to baste every ten minutes like you asked, Mr. Sebastian sir."

Sebastian steps back, his expression unreadable. "It'll do," he says flatly, and sets about re-arranging the beautifully-browned onions and potatoes framing the roast.

Grell steps closer as Bard makes his exit with the cigarette already between his lips. "So now what do we do?" she asks, fiddling with the edge of her waistcoat. "I suppose this would go on a dish, or…"

She jumps back as Sebastian brandishes a carving knife, seemingly produced _out of thin air_ but a hair's-breadth from her face.

"We carve it, of course," Sebastian says, and nods for Grell to take the knife.

Grell takes it, hesitantly. Sebastian nods again in encouragement and then gestures towards the fragrant roast. "Go on then. Surely you've done this before."

Grell half-smiles and steps up to the pan. It looks delicious and smells even better, a succulent piece of beef purchased fresh from the market that very afternoon. The meat is cooked perfectly, well-marbled enough to have released a copious amount of brown juices into the pan. Grell can see the fat glistening like oil on water in the drippings, the caramelized onions, the crusted layer of perfectly-balanced seasonings dusting the potatoes—those potatoes! She can almost _feel_ the crisp bite of the roasted red skin in her mouth, the creamy flesh of the tuber on her tongue—

"I'm sure you are aware that it is best to cut against the grain of the meat," Sebastian offers, and Grell looks at him wide-eyed. "Allow me to assist."

Sebastian places a hand over Grell's on the handle of the knife and directs it towards the roast. Grell can feel the slight give of the beef as the blade presses against it, and then the resistance as Sebastian guides her into a slow, sawing motion.

"Like this," Sebastian says softly. It's almost a purr, and Grell takes a deep breath as the blade cuts into the meat and juices bubble and run from the incision, dripping down the sides of the roast as the flesh is split and the still-red center is slowly exposed.

"Cooked perfectly," Sebastian says, and there is a note of approval in his voice. "Do you agree, Mr. Grell?"

"Yes," Grell breathes as Sebastian releases her hand and she is left to her own devices. She continues to cut, the feel of the blade digging into flesh so much like the feeling of pushing her scythe into a body, of a knife into fragile human skin. Perhaps this is what her Madam feels as well, when she enacts her vengeance—

"You seem to be enjoying this," Sebastian says, as Grell lifts the thin slices of meat to place them on the serving tray. "I'm sure you are aware that your Madam enjoys her meat medium rare."

"Of course," Grell lies, because all Grell knows is how her Madam likes her victims: unsuspecting, guilty, _raw_.

* * *

"And finally, desert."

Grell is starving now, her stomach growling audibly, though she suspects Sebastian is ignoring the obvious sound out of pure decorum. Servants are not allowed to eat before those they serve have finished their meal, and right now Grell just wants to_beat to a bloody pulp_ that smugly-grinning face of Sebastian's picky, _bratty_ little master.

Grell's Madam, at least, is grateful; she's fixed Grell with knowing stares all evening, unspoken communication humming between them regarding what has become their ritual late night activity in the back alleys of Whitechapel.

Sebastian pulls from the oven the custard he'd whipped together earlier, made of thick cream, fresh and viscous eggs and shimmering, crisp dashes of sugar. Grell can still smell the vanilla in her nose; it's never left, really, and her mouth waters as it grows stronger when the oven opens, becomes overpowering when coupled with the sight of pale yellow custard in fine ramekins, baked thick and smooth and sweet.

"You look hungry," Sebastian says, not looking at Grell as he places the ramekins on separate trays already decorated with vibrant, gorgeous swirls of raspberry reduction.

It's only a fraction of a second before Grell replies with her natural instinct, wishing to goad and play games, words spilling, uncontrolled, from her mouth. "Are you _not_ hungry, Mr. Sebastian? I can't fathom how you _wouldn't_ be desiring a taste, unless of course some _other_ dish has captivated your appetite?"

She regrets it almost immediately, cursing her impulsion and the undue situation it just might—much too soon—get her into.

Sebastian turns to her, then, and looks her straight in the eye. He's handsome, of course; _inhumanly_ so, but the latter factor makes itself _truly_ clear when he steps closer, unblinking, his gaze locked to hers. She stares back, eyes wide yet distinctly unafraid, wondering if this will be the moment when he admits that _yes_, he knows what she is, and _yes_, he knows what she's been doing—

"Why don't you taste it?" he asks gently, his features softening into a smile. His eyes, however, remain on hers, somehow empty and dead and _still_ unblinking after _at least_ a minute's time. "Tell me if this is fit to serve your beloved Madam."

Sebastian dips a finger into one of the ramekins—an extra for tasting purposes, no doubt—and offers a fingertip loaded with thick, fragrant custard. He holds it between them, level with Grell's lips, and smiles.

Grell looks at the custard, glistening and sumptuous and smelling so sweetly of vanilla. She looks up at Sebastian's eyes, cold and glassy and _knowing_.

"Would you not like a taste as well—"

"Not necessary," Sebastian's words cut into the last few syllables of Grell's diverted question. "I already know that it is of a suitable quality to serve to my young master."

Sebastian still has not blinked.

Grell opens her mouth, adrenaline coursing through her veins. _Too early_, she mentally scolds, _do not reveal yourself!_

Sebastian gently presses his finger to her tongue, and the cream seems to _explode_ there, soft and warm and cool all at once, spreading in her mouth like velvet, so sweet—

Grell can't help her eyes rolling back into her head.

"Please do take all of it," Sebastian murmurs, and twists his finger so as to facilitate the sucking of Grell's lips, the ministrations of her tongue as she does just that, swallowing every last bit of the custard and shuddering as Sebastian draws his finger slowly out of her mouth, a last bit of _sweet_ clinging to his fingertip as he slides it along her lower lip.

She asks herself if she would be so _shameless_ as to ask for another taste, to _encourage_ this creature to defile her.

Instead she nods, avoiding Sebastian's eyes. "It is rather delicious," she murmurs.

Her stomach growls again.

"Expectedly so," Sebastian says pleasantly, with a smile Grell doesn't recognize as _forced_ until he wipes his hand vehemently on a kitchen towel as if cleaning off something inherently _filthy_.

_Well then_, Grell thinks. _So that's how he feels_. She suppresses a smile, knowing now that her eventual reveal will be _that_much more exciting, considering his apparent revulsion, her true beauty, the sheer _drama_ of it all—

"Shall we serve the dessert, then?" Sebastian asks, lifting a tray of perfectly lined-up crème brulees. He's out of the kitchen before Grell can answer, and Grell lifts a tray, smiling to herself. _This will be delicious, indeed._


End file.
